


Homesickness

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [17]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, D'Artagnan POV, Friendship, Gen, Homesickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: “Can take a man funny, the commission. You should have seen Porthos. I think he cried for a week.”“There’s nothing to cry about,” d’Artagnan said, trying to channel Athos’ most dismissive tone.“I don’t know.” Aramis shrugged. Great. That hadn’t worked. “The end of your life as a gentleman farmer, maybe?”
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 17
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

“To welcome you to the regiment now feels pointless,” Tréville said. “After all you have already done with us and for us, you are hardly new to the musketeers. But welcome to being a musketeer in rank as well as in your heart. May you continue to fight bravely and do your duty to France with honour.”

“May you continue to get us into trouble!” Porthos raised a bottle of wine.

Aramis punched him in the arm. “And get us out of it, you oaf.”

The musketeers laughed. His fellow musketeers. It felt as new and unusual has the pauldron upon his shoulder to call them that, even in his head. He was a musketeer. A real, proper musketeer.

Tréville rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Congratulations on receiving your commission, d’Artagnan.” He raised his cup with his uninjured arm. “I won’t spoil the festivities with a long speech. You deserve this night. Here’s to our newest musketeer.”

“One for all,” Porthos shouted.

“And all for one,” everyone answered, their voices echoing in the courtyard and dissolving into cheers as cups and bottles clinked and were swiftly drained.

Athos was the first to hug him, then Aramis mussed his hair and Porthos thumped him on the back so hard that d’Artagnan stumbled a step forward. Everyone laughed and cheered and he was hugged and patted and shoved and squeezed by every single man in the garrison, musketeer or not. Old Serge smelled of onions and roasted meat, Jacques the stable boy of fresh hay and everyone else of that mix of gun powder, leather, and steel that always screamed musketeers to d’Artagnan.

This was it, his new world, his life.

His greatest ambition was finally fulfilled. D’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers! Yes! He whooped with joy.

Bernard and Porthos lifted him up on their shoulders and paraded him around the garrison like a prince. He felt like one, looking down at everyone, all those men who’d made this possible.

“Long live d’Artagnan,” Athos shouted. Athos. D’Artagnan flushed. He looked over the heads of the crowd, back to where Athos was leaning against a wooden post. Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement and gave him a small smile over the rim of his cup. For Athos that was pretty exuberant so d’Artagnan beamed right back at him.

“Long live d’Artagnan!” All those many, many voices. All those wonderful men.

“Three times three,” Aramis shouted. “Hip hip—”

“Hooray!”

D’Artagnan laughed as Bernard and Porthos threw him in the air like a child and caught him again, only to throw him even higher on the second _hooray_. Everyone was laughing now. It was so good, such a relief after all the intense training and the competition.

On the third _hooray,_ d’Artagnan felt like he was flying, up, up, up into the starry Paris sky. He was on top of the world, the city spread out at his feet, his whole life ahead of him, his destiny—

He landed in a pile of hay.

He sank into the soft, fragrant hay, got it in his mouth and nose and eyes and spluttered as he tried to get out. He paddled around like he was trying to swim, attempting to get to his feet. Finally, he succeeded and pushed himself up, spitting dried grass and probably all sorts of creepy crawlies as well.

Everyone was roaring with laughter, first and foremost Porthos and Bernard who had clearly planned this. Porthos had tears streaming down his face and Bernard was gasping for air so much Porthos had to prop him up.

D’Artagnan tried to look dignified as he brushed hay from his hair. No chance. Athos might have managed, but not him. So he settled for laughing along with everyone else. Aramis sauntered over and brushed a bit of dirt from his pauldron. Heavens, yes, he had to mind his pauldron now. D’Artagnan craned his neck to try and see if there’d been any damage done but couldn’t see much in the dim light.

“Don’t break him,” Aramis said. “I’m way too drunk already to stitch him back together tonight.”

Everyone laughed and d’Artagnan gratefully took the proffered bottle to rinse his mouth and gather some more liquid courage. He laughed and drank and chatted with everyone, sometimes drifting back to his friends and sometimes away from them. There were so many people to thank, so many people to celebrate with. This was the best day of his life.

Apart from, well…

No. He shook his head. None of that now.

Porthos beat someone at cards and there were the usual accusations of cheating and it all dissolved into a wrestling match which was obviously just as much of a foregone conclusion. Still, a circle of excited spectators formed around the contestants and for the first time that night, d’Artagnan wasn’t the centre of attention.

He took a deep breath and picked another blade of grass out of his hair. His eyes met the captain’s. Tréville was leaning back in a chair, taking it all in. He smiled fondly and d’Artagnan walked over to him.

“Enjoying yourself?” Tréville asked.

D’Artagnan nodded. “How are you holding up?”

Tréville smiled. “I’ve been well taken care of. Nothing that would keep me from enjoying your night.”

“I could get you a cushion,” d’Artagnan suggested, then immediately called himself an idiot. This was the captain after all and not the queen.

Tréville chuckled and shook his head. “I assure you, it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with a dozen times before.”

“Maybe Aramis could get you…” D’Artagnan trailed off. Why did he always have to keep digging once he’d found himself a hole? Like Athos said, he needed to stop and think more.

“Let him enjoy the festivities,” Tréville said, nodding towards Aramis who was now throwing knives at their shooting targets. Because… reasons. There were always some nebulous reasons for what Aramis did. Best not to question him when he was throwing knives already.

D’Artagnan made to sit down next to Tréville on a bench, but the captain waved him away.

“You don’t need to stay here with an old man,” he said.

“You’re not old, captain.”

Tréville chuckled. “But I dare say you can find more entertaining company tonight. Go and be with the others. You’ve earned this. You’ve made me very proud, son.”

He turned to Serge then to have his cup refilled and started talking to the old cook. For a moment, d’Artagnan just stood there. _You’ve made me very proud, son._ God, he’d give everything for those words. He’d made Captain Tréville proud. _The_ Captain Tréville. His captain. His… 

He weaved his way through the others. Everyone clapped his shoulders and patted his back, congratulating him left, right, and centre. If he’d drunk with everyone who wanted to drink with him, Porthos would have had to carry him to his bed before midnight.

He pushed through the crowd to where Aramis was now facing away from the targets and throwing his main gauche over his shoulder. Still hitting bullseye, of course. Porthos spun him around a few times. Everyone cheered when Aramis stumbled into Porthos’ arms like a swooning maiden before being set back onto his feet. All for show, the old liar. He hit the target just the same.

_You’ve made me very proud, son._

His father used to say that back when… before… his parents were always proud of him. They’d be so proud now, if they knew. His father would… He looked back towards the captain who was quietly observing the shenanigans. His father would sit there with Tréville and they’d be sharing old tales from the war and from Gascony and they’d… he shook himself. This was pointless. His father wasn’t here. He had to trust that he knew, up there in heaven. That he’d seen everything and that he was proud of him in some way or another. Like Tréville was. Because every father would be proud of his son becoming a musketeer and receiving his commission from the king.

He ran his fingers along the edge of his pauldron. The leather was stiff and new. His father would have loved to see that. It must have cost them a fortune to have it made. It was beautiful, his very own pauldron. And his father would be so proud, so happy. He’d love to touch it and admire the workmanship. And his mother… She’d love this, too, of course. She would… He imagined hugging her. She’d smell a bit like Serge, of cooking. Maybe of her famous stew.

Gascony pig stew. The best stew in the world. They didn’t have pork like that in Paris, nowhere close. He had tried. He had tried to explain to Serge and he’d tried to find it in the taverns around town, but it was never quite right. He’d once spent an entire day trying to find the best stew in Paris with Porthos. No chance. There was something about the spices, about the tenderness of the meat... His mother’s cooking was so much better than the abominations that passed for pig stew around Paris.

He missed that stew.

He missed his maman.

Oh wasn’t he a brave musketeer, missing his maman... He sighed and traced the fleur de lis on his pauldron with his fingers. He was a soldier now. He had to stop acting like a boy.

Constance was a bit like— No, he wasn’t thinking about her.

She would be so happy… Did she even know? Athos must have told her. He looked for Athos, but… no, he wouldn’t pester Athos with questions about… about his former landlord’s wife. Yes. That. No point. It wasn’t like he… He was fine. He was a musketeer now, not just a little farm boy anymore.

Maybe Aramis had spoken to her. She liked Aramis, even though she always slapped him. And Aramis liked her. Aramis liked her a lot. But then again, Aramis liked everyone. And everyone liked Aramis. He was never alone. Always the soul of all festivities. Even when they were d’Artagnan’s festivities. Because currently Aramis was doing whatever he was doing in the middle of a throng of men and d’Artagnan was standing next to that big pile of hay he had become so intimately familiar with earlier.

He should look after his horse.

The noise was muffled as soon as he stepped into the stables. It was dark and he stood still for a moment to let his eyes adjust. They said Gascons could see at night like cats, but there were limits to these abilities. And it was good to just stand there. The air was warm and full of smells that weren’t too different from the stables at home. They’d had all sorts of animals back on the farm, not just horses. But he’d always loved horses.

Désirée nuzzled at him and he stroked her neck in apology for not bringing her any treats. Athos’ Roger sidled up next to him as if he just so happened to pass by on a casual stroll around the neighbourhood. Like his owner, Roger was far above begging for treats.

D’Artagnan buried his hands in his mare’s mane and leaned against her shoulder. It felt good to have her close. Outside he could hear voices rising and falling, but in here he didn’t have to worry about that. He could just stand quietly and think.

His father had picked Désirée for him. He’d been good with horses. They’d gone to the horse market at Tarbes to find a draught horse for the farm. He’d still been on his trusty black-and-white pony back then, but slowly his legs were growing so long he was afraid he’d soon be able to go for a ride and a walk at the same time.

His mare snorted softly when he put his arms around her neck. She’d come all the way from Lupiac with him. She’d been there when… She’d been there when he first came to Paris, as well. She’d always been there. He’d lost everything else on the journey, but she was still there. His last reminder of Lupiac in Gascony, of his father.

He breathed deeply and leaned into her warmth.

It was almost like a hug.

Almost as warm as his maman.

Ugh.

He was _not_ hiding in the stables crying for his maman. Definitely not during his commission celebration. He was really, really not doing that.

It was only…

It was a really, really long way to Lupiac. He was very, very far from home.

Usually, it didn’t feel it, but today…

_You’ve made me very proud, son._

He tried to hear the words in his papa’s voice.

_You’ve made me very proud, son._

It helped that the captain’s accent was similar, though his had been dulled by decades in Paris until he sounded more like Athos and the other fancy pants at court.

_You’ve made me very proud, son._

His papa would have said that. He always said that. _I’m proud of you, Charlot._ Even when all he’d done was complete a sword drill. Always proud of him. What would he say if he saw him now? A king’s musketeer and all…

“D’Artagnan?” The door opened and Tréville stepped in. “Are you in here?”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan faked a cough to cover up how shaky that one syllable had come out. God damn it, not in front of the captain.

Tréville walked straight towards him without even hesitating. Good to know that the special Gascony powers didn’t dim after so many years in the capital.

D’Artagnan stood up straight, but kept a hand on his horse’s neck.

Tréville stroked her nose.

“She’s a wonderful horse. And makes a good addition to the stables.” He rubbed the neck of Athos’ Roger. “Jacques tells me she’s getting on very well with this fine gentleman.”

“She’s pretty easy-going.”

Then all was silent and d’Artagnan, for once, had no idea what to say. His father had always said he could talk the ears off a donkey. Well, it didn’t feel like it now. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Thank you,” Tréville finally said. “For today, but also for the past few months. It’s you who’s been the greatest addition to the garrison.”

“Umm.”

_Brilliant,_ he imagined he could hear Athos say, _as eloquent and erudite as ever._

“You saved Athos’ life as soon as you arrived,” Tréville continued.

“After I tried to kill him.” That did seem a necessary addition. It wasn’t like he’d planned on saving Athos from the firing squad because… well… he soon learned that he’d been all wrong about him.

“You’ve been there for him ever since. And Porthos and Aramis, too.”

Well, after doubting that Porthos was not actually a murderer and some pretty rocky patches with Aramis, too.

“They’ve been good friends,” d’Artagnan said. “It’s an honour to serve with them.”

“It’s an honour to have you here with us.”

D’Artagnan hoped Tréville couldn’t see how much he was squirming at that praise.

“Thanks for having me,” he said. “Letting me tag along for so long.”

Tréville shook his head. “That was more their decision than mine. Those pesky inseparables have a habit of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. Not that there was anything to forgive in that instance. I’m very glad you found us.”

Found them to kill Athos for murdering his father. Ended up nearly getting Athos killed, no thanks to his own skill.

“I’m glad they kept me.”

That made him sound like some mongrel dog that had strayed into the garrison. Oh they’d like that image. He’d had a dog once, back home. Scrawny little thing, runt of the litter and no good with the sheep, but they’d grown up together, roamed the fields and gotten in trouble more times than he could count.

Tréville’s hand weighed heavy on his shoulder. “They’re not keeping you around out of pity,” he said. “They’ve adopted you as one of their own. In all their years together, I have never seen them take to anyone like that. You’re the exception, son.”

Son. The word stung.

“I’m not your son.” D’Artagnan shrugged off the captain’s hand.

God damn it, why was he behaving like that? He’d just been commissioned into this man’s regiment and he was giving him lip.

Tréville took a step back.

“I have no sons,” he said. “And I never will. My mistress is France and all she has given me is brilliant young men like you. Forgive an old fool for feeling paternal towards you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No reason.” Tréville put his hand back on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “My choice of words was preposterous. I understand that this notion carries a lot of meaning for you, especially today.”

D’Artagnan sighed and started to braid Désirée’s mane just for something to do. Tréville leaned back against a post with a groan, making it clear he wouldn’t leave without a resolution.

D’Artagnan tried to last more than a few seconds, but the silence quickly became unbearable.

“I think he’d be proud,” he said. “My papa.”

“I cannot presume to speak for him,” Tréville said. “But you have made such an impression, on me, on my best men, on everyone in the regiment, as well as on the royal court and everyone else you have come in touch with. I could not imagine anyone not being proud of your achievements.”

“Unless I act before I think.”

Tréville huffed out a laugh. “Athos will beat that out of you yet. And even if he doesn’t… it has worked fairly well for Aramis so far.”

“Papa used to say that, too.” So many times. And no matter how many times he’d promised, he’d never really listened. “He taught me how to do things right. It’s not his fault that I…”

“He’s taught you well. And your unpredictability is an asset, too. It has already saved your new brothers more than once.”

D’Artagnan smiled at the memories. All the times Athos had chided him, but also moments like the fire at Pinon when he had clung to him in desperation and had told him things none of the others had known.

“You’ll get there,” Tréville said. “We’re all here to support you. You have not only won a commission. You have gained a family. This isn’t an easy life you have chosen, but you know hard work already, so this is not new. But whatever this life will bring, you will never face it alone. We’ve got you, Charlot.”

Charlot. Little Charles. He hadn’t heard that name since… since that day in the rain. Everyone here called him by his family name. Nobody back home had. He’d been Charlot, d’Artagnan’s son.

The door closed behind Tréville and he was left with his thoughts. D’Artagnan. He’d started to think of himself as that. At first to make himself seem older and more important and well… he’d been here to avenge his father, to uphold the family name. A few months on, everyone called him that. How many in the regiment even knew his name was Charles? Athos, Porthos, Aramis—Olivier, Isaac, and René, that was. They knew. Tit for tat around some campfire or some tavern table, that’s how he’d traded his name for theirs. Nobody called them by theirs either.

It was like that for many musketeers. Some had past lives they wanted to forget, like Athos with his fancy family name. Porthos freely admitted that he’d made up a name when he joined the army simply because they’d asked him for a family name and he’d never needed one before. Aramis was the only one whose first name was common knowledge. Apparently, there’d been a few spurned lovers showing up at the garrison crying for René. Pretty funny considering he was the one who’d actually invented a name to hide from some things in his past. Athos, Porthos, Aramis. They had proper hero names. D’Artagnan… it didn’t quite fit. But it fit him. At least he was carrying on the family name. And for that, he decided, his papa would probably be pretty proud of him.

The door was thrown open again and swept in on a wave of noise was Aramis, the handsome Réne, sauntering into the stables like he owned the place.

“Private audience with the captain, eh?” He walked straight past d’Artagnan to his own mare, a horse d’Artagnan’s father would have called spirited and who Porthos called something more appropriate for a female dog than a female horse.

“Oh yes, my lovely, I’ve missed you, too,” Aramis said in reply to her nickering. He fed her half an apple and held out the other half to d’Artagnan. “Be quick about it or she’ll raise hell.”

She would. If anyone beat Aramis at dramatics, it was his horse.

“He really should be resting with that wound, you know,” Aramis said over the chomping of the horses’ teeth.

“I offered to get him a pillow.”

Aramis snorted. “Bet he took that well.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at him and continued to braid Désirée’s mane.

“Is she the reason you’re hiding here, the lovely Madame Bonacieux?” Aramis asked.

D’Artagnan bit his tongue. The lovely Madame Bonacieux was the very last person he wanted to think about.

“She told me I had no business thinking about her,” he said. “So I don’t.”

Aramis nodded. “Then you’re doing better with that than I usually do. I always need to distract myself.” He gestured towards the door. “Come on out, everyone’s there to make you think of other things.”

“I just need a moment.”

“Oh will you stop it!” Aramis’ words startled d’Artagnan. He hadn’t meant… oh… Joseph, Porthos’ gelding, was trying to extract something from Aramis’ pocket with his tongue.

“Your slobber, all over my uniform. Again,” Aramis chided and pushed the horse’s head away to fish out a dry piece of bread. “There you go, you insatiable monster.”

He said it in that same fond tone he used with Porthos. _Both easily motivated by food,_ he’d told d’Artagnan once. _Incredibly useful at times._

Aramis hummed thoughtfully. “Can take a man funny, the commission. You should have seen Porthos. I think he cried for a week.”

“There’s nothing to cry about,” d’Artagnan said, trying to channel Athos’ most dismissive tone.

“I don’t know.” Aramis shrugged. Great. That hadn’t worked. “The end of your life as a gentleman farmer, maybe?”

The end. Because it was, wasn’t it? He knew musketeers could retire, in theory. In practice… Would he really go back to planting crops and tilling fields? Put himself back at the mercy of draughts and pests and thunderstorms? After having a taste of this, a life that he could shape for himself, what appeal did Lupiac hold?

D’Artagnan kicked the straw at his feet. Great. Like this day hadn’t been big enough already.

“Have you written to your mother?” Aramis asked.

“And tell her what? That she’s lost me as well?”

He hadn’t meant to snap, but… What did Aramis think he would write?

“You are old enough to lead your own life. And I’m sure she’d be happy to hear about this.” Aramis tugged at one of the stiff leather straps that kept d’Artagnan’s pauldron in place. “Let her know how well you’re doing.”

“And what if she’s not happy? What if she hates it? Not everyone can be as perfect as your family.”

The saintly d’Herblay family. Oh yes, they all heard plenty about them. The gorgeous sisters, the smartest brother, the kindest father, and oh his mother had to be the Mother Mary in disguise.

Aramis chuckled. “They were pretty disappointed with this. Prayed for an abbé for a son and ended up with a soldier boy. Not quite what they had in mind.”

“But you always say…”

“…what I want you to believe. And don’t get me wrong, they’re happy for me now. Worried to no end, of course, but I think they like that I’ve found my place. And that it’s a place far from home.”

“Why’d they be happy about that?” Because his mother wouldn’t be. At first, he’d had the excuse of revenge, of avenging his father’s death. And then… she would indulge him for a while. She always had. Let him have his fun, let him explore. She’d understand. But now… now he was making a life for himself in Paris. There had been no reason for him to stay here, but there’d been much less of a reason to go back home. But she wouldn’t want to hear that. It would be personal. She wasn’t enough of a reason for him to return. He had France for a mistress now and a new family in his brothers in arms. She would hate that.

“Cause I’ve stopped getting into trouble,” Aramis said.

“Uh huh.”

Tréville’s grey hairs probably disagreed.

“It’s a good story around town. The son that’s gone off to fight in the wars, to serve the king. I’m telling you, everyone’s quite relieved I finally did something right.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. Sure. Because Aramis didn’t always do everything right. “Bet you would have returned if your father had died.”

Aramis sighed. “I didn’t even return when I was all but dead myself. My brother came to collect me, Antoine, you know, after Savoy. I could barely speak, but I refused to come along. Refused to leave the garrison.”

“You weren’t in your right mind.” D’Artagnan shook his head. He hadn’t been there, of course, but he understood enough to know that.

“I wasn’t,” Aramis agreed. “But I wouldn’t change that decision now. No matter what happened. My place is here.”

“But you love them.”

“Yes.”

“And they love you.”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you want to go back even if… you know…?”

Aramis stroked his mare’s neck until she snorted impatiently and stepped away from him. “You’re no help,” he chided. “You see, they are good people, living in a very small town. I’ve always been a bit too much for that town. And I don’t think that’s improved. But to them, everything is so much better now. To them, I’m this perfect musketeer. Not the young rascal I used to be. It’d be a shame to take that away from them.”

That didn’t sound like Aramis at all. “You’re pretty near perfect, though,” d’Artagnan said.

“I know.” Aramis preened and d’Artagnan was pretty sure he was fluttering his eyelashes, too. “But you know how your maman always finds another speck of dirt on your face, or a hair out of place? Well, I don’t think she’d see it quite like that if she had to endure me for too long.”

Would his own mother? She’d be proud. D’Artagnan knew she would be. She’d love to hear about his commission and all. But… d’Artagnan tried to imagine going back to Lupiac. He still rose early, even in Paris. But then… no morning muster in Gascony, no new missions. Feed the animals, milk the cows, tend to the fields… wake up the next morning and do it all again. How had he done it for so long? His feet were itching, remembering it now.

“I don’t think I could go back,” he said. “Not that I want to, but…”

He trailed off. How could he say that without sounding ungrateful? He loved his mother, his home, of course he did. But also…

“But you’ve seen how much more there is to life,” Aramis said. “And while your maman might not understand that, I’m sure she’d still like you to have it.”

She would. She’d always wanted him to have everything, even if she didn’t understand. D’Artagnan scratched his horse’s ears. That was one thing. They hadn’t needed another horse. A useless horse that wouldn’t pull a plough. And where did he have to ride? But she’d been happy for him. Had smiled at him racing across the fields and dreaming of adventures. Aramis was right. She wouldn’t begrudge him this.

“Do you think my dad knows?” He surprised himself with the question, but he did want to know. And Aramis was the one who knew about such things. Half an abbé and all that.

“I’m sure he looks out for you.”

“Yes, but… does he know about this?” D’Artagnan plucked at his pauldron. “About the regiment and my commission and about the farm?”

Aramis huffed out a soft laugh. “I’m sure he’s always known. He doesn’t need to watch you from above to know you’d make a fine soldier. He trained you very well.”

“He also trained me to be a farmer.”

“Did he? You might have gotten good with horses that way, but—Athos might disagree with that—I don’t think you learned your skills with the sword threshing wheat.”

D’Artagnan’s face burned so much he thought he might start to glow like a candle. Had his father always thought he was a bad farmer? That he needed to give him some alternative? He’d been a soldier himself, of course.

“We could go to church in the morning,” Aramis said. “Light a candle for your papa. Thank him for all his great work and foresight.”

“I’d like that.” Because he had to do something, right? A letter to his mother, a candle for papa… he had to do something to make this right.

“It’s all paid off now,” Aramis said. “All that work he put into you. Here you are, upholding the honour of Gascony at the royal court and sometimes even nearly beating the best swordsman in the whole of France.”

He squeezed d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “You’ve done very, very well. And trust me, your parents know you’re right where you’re meant to be.”


	2. Chapter 2

Once he was alone again, d’Artagnan finished braiding his horse’s mane. He knew it would be all crooked and not very pretty. Even his Gascon eyes couldn’t see that well in the dark. But it gave him something to do, something to focus on. He still didn’t feel like going back outside and joining the others again. He could hear singing now, loud and off-key. They were having fun and he… wasn’t.

He did think Tréville and Aramis were right. His parents would understand and they would be proud. Of course they would. They’d always understood and they’d always wanted what was best for him. He didn’t have to worry about that. They’d forgive him and love him still.

Knowing that didn’t really make him any happier, though.

He missed them.

Yes, he had all these brothers now and he’d wanted brothers all his life. He’d never dared to imagine them to be quite as magnificent though. More like Aramis’ brother who was, by all accounts, very quiet and boring, but overall still a nice enough guy. Now he had the best brothers ever, a whole regiment full of them. And the captain as well. They were his family now and that was good.

Very good.

Very, very good.

He couldn’t wish for a better family. Only… his family.

He’d give an arm and a leg to have one more day with his other family, his first family. Well, maybe not an arm and a leg because that would mean he couldn’t be a musketeer anymore. Would he, actually? Would he give up being a musketeer if it meant he could bring his father back to life?

The door flew open and the noise got louder. Singing and toasting… everyone in his new family was so happy. Happy to have him, while he…

“You still in there?” Porthos asked. “You and your cat eyes. I can’t see a thing.”

He stepped into the stables and let the door fall shut, making the darkness absolute once more.

“Still here,” d’Artagnan said before Porthos could worry. He did that. He’d worry if one of them didn’t show up at muster or stayed out late.

Porthos carefully shuffled along the wall and sat down on the feed bin. “You wanna come up here?” he asked. “Cause I didn’t bring any nibbles for her majesty and I could do without having a piece taken out of me.”

D’Artagnan smiled. Porthos’ terrible relationship with Angelina was legendary. Neither of them was willing to share Aramis and she mercilessly abused that Porthos wasn’t entirely comfortable around horses.

With a last scratch of the ears, he left his mare and ambled over to Porthos. Least he could do, really. Since they were all taking turns looking out for him. Athos had last watch, apparently. Or maybe he wouldn’t… maybe he couldn’t anymore. Festivities with plenty of wine weren’t the best for him. He’d never let himself go completely if he had real watches to take, but it wasn’t like this was…

D’Artagnan sniffed and stood up straight. Belly in, chest out, shoulders wide. Look like a man if he couldn’t act like one.

“Ah, come here, you.” Porthos got up and reached out for him. “Give us a cuddle.”

Not like d’Artagnan had a choice. He tried. Manly. Musketeer. All of that. But there was no escaping Porthos. And maybe he didn’t try all that hard.

Porthos was warm and solid and somehow managed to be everywhere at once until d’Artagnan was sinking into him entirely. It didn’t really matter, did it? It was so dark in the stables even if somebody had come in, they wouldn’t have been able to tell.

Porthos didn’t say anything. He stood there and held him and after a minute or two, d’Artagnan stopped worrying about what others might see or think. He hadn’t been held like that since… probably since he was a child. Hadn’t really needed it, either. They’d always been there for him. He’d always know that, back in Lupiac. But Paris was so much bigger than that and everyone seemed a lot further away, like all those people just didn’t have enough hands to reach out to each other and most of the time everyone drifted through their days without touching anyone else.

He’d had Constance, of course. Constance who’d have a pot of soup over the fire for him when he came in late at night. Constance who’d wash his clothes and darn his socks, who’d be there with a smile and a word and a kiss and… well...

The tears started slowly. One, then another, but then at some point the dam broke and they just kept coming, big, fat, ugly tears.

“There, there,” Porthos said. His voice was so deep that it was more a rumble against d’Artagnan’s chest than an actual sound. “I’ve got you.”

He did. And somehow that just doubled the tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about. He was fine. More than fine, a musketeer and being celebrated and being held by his brother and helped by everyone. But somehow that still wasn’t enough. Somehow, he was still crying like a toddler with a skinned knee.

Only then it would have been his maman and papa holding him. And he could have cried for hours and days and they’d have held him still and nobody would have dared to laugh and nobody would have seen or judged and…

He sniffed.

That memory wasn’t helping. He couldn’t keep thinking of his parents and missing them and all. Especially not with Porthos there. How crass was that? They all knew Porthos hadn’t had anyone since he was a little boy. And d’Artagnan was crying because he’d have to write his mother a letter rather than telling her face-to-face.

Get a grip.

His tears wouldn’t listen, though.

It was Porthos who had a grip on him and a very tight one at that. It was almost like he was holding the pieces together, keeping him from falling apart completely. But there were still cracks and through every crack came more tears.

He couldn’t say how long they stood like that, but it must have been a while before Porthos let go of him and handed him a soft, shining white handkerchief.

“Aramis’,” he said with a shrug. “Finest whatever the lady was using. I liked it.”

That made d’Artagnan chuckle through his tears.

Porthos still kept an arm around his shoulders. It was all a bit different now with two pauldrons to get in the way. Or maybe d’Artagnan was just way too conscious of his.

“Sorry.” He blew his nose and tried to take a deep breath without choking on another sob.

“Don’t be.” Porthos squeezed him tight and beckoned for him to sit on the feed bin with him. “I was the same when I got mine.”

D’Artagnan hiccupped. “Aramis said you cried for a week.”

Porthos’ chuckle made them both shake. “And of course you can always trust Aramis with that sort of thing. But… it’s not easy, is it?”

D’Artagnan snorted. “It should be. You’ve done the hard part, you know?”

“You think it’s getting easier now?”

“No, but… I’ve got the commission. Achieved something. And everyone’s celebrating.” D’Artagnan kicked his heels against the wooden box. “I should be happy.”

“But you’re not.”

“No, cause I’m stupid.”

“Nah.” Porthos paused. “It makes sense, if you think about it. You’ve achieved something. Makes you think back to what got you here and who. And then you think back and well… yeah… but it makes sense.”

“Of course it does to you…” But to d’Artagnan… What did he have to cry about?

Porthos cocked his head. “What makes it different for me?”

D’Artagnan scoffed. “You had real reasons to be sad.”

Porthos hummed and thought for a bit before he replied. “Let me get this straight… You think you shouldn’t be crying because… what? You’ve been through all sorts since you got here. I’d just been through dragging Athos out of a bottle and Aramis out of his bed—and I wasn’t very successful at either.”

“But before that…”

“Before that you had your father dying in your arms. I’ve never had that.”

“But I was an adult and…”

Porthos half turned towards him. “Is this about my mother?”

D’Artagnan beat out a march with his heels but made no reply.

“Cause if it is, you need to snap out of it.” Porthos shook his head. “It’s not a game of cards. It’s not one parent against another or one loss against another. Life doesn’t work like that.”

D’Artagnan pressed his lips firmly together to stop himself from saying something truly nonsensical or, even worse, from crying.

“You’ve every right to be sad,” Porthos said. “It’s a big thing. You’re far away from home and there’s people you’re gonna miss. Paris has always been home for me. I’ve run these streets for as long as I can remember.”

“You’d like Gascony,” d’Artagnan said. “The fields and the mountains…”

“Too horsey for me, to be honest.” Porthos shuddered at the thought.

“You’re a musketeer,” d’Artagnan reminded him.

“Blame Tréville and the king for that. Better than the infantry though, I give you that. And at least we’ve got the garrison here in Paris where you get to meet new people for playing cards and not the same small-town folks every day. I’d be hounded out of your town in a week.”

D’Artagnan smiled. It was nice of Porthos to try and cheer him up, but it didn’t really work. The thoughts were still swirling around in his head. Thoughts of home, of his father dying in his arms, of his mother all alone…

“Do you miss her?” he asked. “Your mum?”

Again, Porthos took his time to think before he answered.

“It’s been so long, it’s a bit different for me,” he said. “But yes, I miss her. I’d like her to see all this, see how my life has changed. Sometimes I think… she’d be feeding all of us. You know, living somewhere down the road and cooking for us whenever we dropped in…”

“My mum makes the best stew. Gascony pig stew.”

“I know, you had me try every stew in Paris and you hated them all.”

“She’d like you.” D’Artagnan chuckled. “She’d feed you so much you’d have to tell her to stop.”

“Never!” Porthos held his hands out in mock outrage. “She’d have to feed me three pigs.”

“She’d like Athos as well.” D’Artagnan tried to imagine it, Athos in the kitchen, being all formal and stiff, calling her Madame d’Artagnan and bowing to her.

“She’d like Aramis best,” Porthos said. “There’s no woman in the whole of France who can resist him.”

“Constance can.”

D’Artagnan bit down fiercely on his tongue as soon as the words slipped out of his mouth. Porthos pulled him into a tight sideways hug.

“She’d always like you best though,” he said. For a moment d’Artagnan wasn’t sure who he was talking about. “You’re her son after all. She’d just tell us off for how thin you are and to make sure you got to bed on time.”

“I’m not a child.”

Porthos ruffled his hair. “Could have fooled me.”

“Pah.” D’Artagnan stuck out his chin. “I’m a musketeer.”

“Good boy,” Porthos said. “You’re maman raised you right.”

“So did yours.”

“She didn’t get much of a chance,” Porthos said. “But think she’d be happy with how I’ve turned out. Just like yours.”

D’Artagnan nodded. She would be. He was certain of that now. Wasn’t anything not to be proud of. They weren’t farmers or abbés, but they were good musketeers and good men. That had to count for something.

“Let’s grab a bottle,” he said, heaving himself to his feet. “I’m all dried out now.”

“Can’t have that.” Porthos stood and held the door open for him like he was the king. “After you, Monsieur. You’re the guest of honour tonight.”

Nobody had missed him too much, it seemed. There was still plenty of drinking and singing and playful fighting. All the usual things they got up to. Tréville had disappeared, but everyone else was still there.

Porthos found them some wine only to be asked to join a group who were arm wrestling around the long table. He looked at d’Artagnan, the question clear on his face. D’Artagnan smiled at him and nodded. With an apologetic shrug, Porthos disappeared into the crowd. Shouted bets were flying back and forth, men trading favours instead of the money most of them lacked should their contestant win. Fools, all of them who were behind anyone but Porthos.

Porthos knew how to play this game. D’Artagnan had watched him often enough now. He even spotted one or two opportunities when Porthos could have easily snatched someone’s purse while they were distracted. But this was the garrison and Porthos was only focussed on making everyone laugh. He beat a few others with ease, but actually had to struggle against Bernard. Once he’d beaten him, two of the new recruits offered to go up against him together. Porthos refused at first, but it was only for show.

“We’ll give you five francs if you win,” one of them offered. He clearly had that sort of money and also realised that Porthos didn’t.

Porthos paused, pretending to consider. “Nah,” he shrugged. “That’s not even worth the one drop of sweat you two namby-pambies would cost me.”

“Ten francs?”

“I don’t want your money, lads.” Porthos waved them off. “Offer me something I actually need.”

They seemed flummoxed.

“Stable duty,” d’Artagnan shouted.

Porthos nodded. “I could consider that. Take care of my horse and tack until the end of the year. I want both gleaming every day. Should build some arm muscles as well.”

D’Artagnan laughed as the two recruits protested.

“That settles it,” Athos said, standing next to him. “An easy win.”

He toasted Porthos with his cup.

“No way he’s going to lose now,” d’Artagnan agreed.

He tried to focus on the match, to laugh at Porthos’ jokes and the show he put on, but it was difficult with Athos looming next to him. Not that Athos said anything, but he was… present. And somehow d’Artagnan thought he owed him an explanation, even though Athos hadn’t asked for one.

“Better now,” he said, still looking straight ahead at Porthos. “Had a little wobble thinking about my parents and all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos nod. “I cannot presume to relate, but it seems a perfectly reasonable concern on a day like this.”

D’Artagnan didn’t know much about Athos’ parents and the others didn’t have much to tell him either. If Athos talked about his family at all, it was always about Thomas. _Everybody’s favourite, Thomas._ And Athos wasn’t really the sort of man you asked for details when he didn’t want to talk about something. But d’Artagnan’s money was on them never having a great relationship. Not the sort of people you’d want to share your successes with. If they’d even think of becoming a musketeer as a success. Thinking of that mansion they’d had, they probably wouldn’t. Probably beneath them. Anyways…

He took a deep breath. “All sorted now.”

“Good.”

D’Artagnan was just contemplating how good it was that Athos never asked unnecessary questions, never pressed him for more, when Athos spoke again.

“There is no shame in crying. Porthos cried for—”

“Yes, yes, Aramis said.”

That shut Athos up.

Porthos won and there was cheering and shouting and loud debates about whether or not he’d made a fair deal with the two recruits. They only had themselves to blame, really, and it wouldn’t do them any harm to scrape muck from Joseph’s broad behind, so d’Artagnan thought it was only fair. Athos didn’t comment and neither did d’Artagnan.

“I want you to know that I am very, very proud of you,” Athos said eventually. “We all are. “

D’Artagnan turned to face him, but Athos was still looking straight ahead, across the heads of the men and into to distance like he was remembering everything.

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan had to gulp down the lump in his throat. _I’m very, very proud of you._ Athos was proud of him. Athos. That was…

“Not solely based on how you earned your commission though that was very honourable,” Athos said. “We’re proud because of how far you have come as a whole.” He finally turned to look at d’Artagnan, a slight smirk around his lips. “You’re a far cry from the boy who burst in here shouting my name.”

The lump in d’Artagnan’s throat grew so much he could hardly breathe. He nodded and tried to smile back.

“While this can and should never replace your parents’ pride…” Athos’ eyes bored straight into his now. “… you should know that we are always there for you.”

D’Artagnan swallowed, then swallowed again. He was so happy he thought he might burst with it.

“That… I…” He broke off and shook his head.

He surged forward instead and embraced Athos so hard that wine splattered everywhere.

Athos was stiff as a board at first, but then he brought his arms around and patted d’Artagnan’s shoulder. When d’Artagnan wouldn’t let go, Athos huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh against his ear.

“You’re making a scene,” Athos said, but left his hands on d’Artagnan’s back.

D’Artagnan shook his head. If Athos thought he cared about that, he thought wrong. He’d never not be thankful for Athos. He’d gone from wanting to kill him to saving his life and then… There’d been the fire at Pinon and Milady… all those big things, but also the small things every day, Athos’ endless patience at sword practice and his constant reminders and… being there for him and being… him. Athos. The greatest swordsman in France, but more importantly the best friend anyone could ever have.

“One for all,” he whispered against Athos’ collarbone.

“And all for one,” Athos replied. “And we mean it, you understand? Any time. We’re all equal here. You’re one of us now, officially sanctioned by the king. You will never not be a musketeer or our brother.”


End file.
